High druid of Shannara_ Jarka Ruus - Terry Brooks [151]
“I behaved poorly this afternoon,” she said, coming to a stop several feet away. “I apologize.”
Shadea was immediately suspicious. She didn’t like the abrupt switch. It wasn’t like Iridia to forgive so readily. Not her, not anyone. Nevertheless, she nodded agreeably. “We will put it behind us.”
“That would be best for everyone,” Iridia said as she turned away.
She walked past Shadea and continued down the hallway without looking back. Shadea stayed where she was, watching until the other was out of sight, all the time wondering what was going on.
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
They chose not to bury Ahren Elessedil’s remains, but to burn them. A wetland was a poor place to dig a grave, and they had only their long knives to attempt the task. Besides, Khyber was not happy with the idea of leaving her uncle interred in a mud flat where rains and erosion might soon uncover him and leave him food for scavengers.
Working by light provided mostly from the still-burning swamp waters, they collected deadwood, piled it high on the mud bank where he had fought and died, and placed him on it. Khyber sang a Druid funeral song, one she had learned from her uncle, one that spoke of the purpose of a life well lived and an afterlife where hopes were fulfilled and rebirth possible. She used her magic to ignite the dry wood, and soon it was burning. They stood together beside it, watching as it consumed her uncle’s body, turning it to ash and smoke and sending it rising into the descending night in a mix of heat and ash.
When it was finished, they moved into the trees and slept, exhausted physically and emotionally, not even bothering to mount a watch against the things that dwelled in the Slags. They shared a sense of inevitability that night, that what would happen to them was not within their control, that if their strongest member could be taken from them so abruptly, their own efforts at protecting themselves would make little difference.
They woke unharmed and in a better frame of mind, the trauma of the previous day far enough behind them that they could think about what was going to happen next. The day was typical of the Slags, all grayness and mist and sunless, fetid air. The fires of the funeral pyre and the doomed Galaphile were extinguished finally, and only dark smears of ash remained to mark their passing. Looking out over the bay, Pen caught sight of heavy ripples that indicated the movement of something big beneath the dark surface. Life went on.
With nothing to eat or drink, the three companions huddled down in the chilly dawn light to discuss what they would do.
“Perhaps we should think about going back,” Tagwen offered solemnly. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting we give up — just that we not continue on as we are. After all, we are in a rather desperate situation. We are lost, grounded, and weaponless. I know what Ahren told us to do, but it might not be the best thing. We might be better off doing what I started out to do in the first place — finding Penderrin’s parents and seeking their help. With Pen’s father’s magic and an airship, we will have a better chance of getting to where we want to go.”
To Pen’s eyes, the Dwarf looked a wreck. His clothes were hanging raggedly from his once stout frame, his face was haggard and worn, and his eyes had a jumpy, nervous look to them. The gruff, determined air he had brought with him to Patch Run had vanished in the chase across the Lazareen and through the Slags. There was more than a hint of desperation about him.
But, then, he might be describing any of them, Pen thought.
He need only look at his own reflection in the waters of the bay to see that was so.
“I don’t know where my parents are,” he said to the Dwarf. “I’m not sure we can find them.”
“Besides, it would take as much effort to go back as to go on,” Khyber pointed out. “At least out here we are safe from the Druids who hunt us. With the Galaphile destroyed, the closest enemies are eliminated.